The Fire Thief

by Erin St Pierre

  “And my parents? Does anyone know who they were?” She held her breath. Maybe he could explain her gray eyes.

  Trystaen shook his head, then smiled sadly at her. “Sorry. I wish I had good news for you, but no one seems to know where you came from, or who you are, or why you have so much power.”

  “Could I be from Voltaic? Did they have gray eyes?” And how would Martka Alyona have met them?

  “Theirs were gold. And you shoot fire, not lightning. And how could you have caused earthquakes and floods? That’s not Voltaic’s power.”

  She kicked out at a tuft of weeds. “How can nobody know anything after that … display?”

  Trystaen shrugged. “Everyone wanted answers, but the power disappeared right after your birth.” His voice became wistful. “No one forgot that magic. An unstoppable wave of raw power that tore the world apart.” He waved his arms in a flourish. “And voila! A year ago, we felt it again.”

  She hated asking but had to know. “As powerful as before?” That magic had led to Tarik’s death. And Lenka’s. How many others, both fae and human, had died?

  “Just a rumble. But enough. More than enough to get Darien’s soldiers hunting for you. Because your amber was sending out earthquakes, we all guessed you were somewhere in Atria.” Trystaen’s face hardened. “The rest of us could not allow Darien to get you.” He glanced at Averin. “He’s been looking for you for months.”

  She resisted the urge to clutch her pendant—betrayer that it was. She swallowed. “Why not just kill me outright if I’m so dangerous?”

  Trystaen grinned almost boyishly at her. “Because Zephyr royals aren’t Darien Pyreaxos.” He waved a hand at her. “And you’re of more use to the entire continent of Zathryth alive than dead.”

  She gnawed her lip. Whoever her parents were, they must have known the threat she posed, and the threats she would inevitably face. Yet, they’d left her defenseless in a human orphanage, where she could have starved to death.

  Martka Alyona may have known more about her background than the old woman let on, but that hadn’t resulted in better care or more food. Her parents must have had confidence in her innate ability to survive.

  She blinked back the headache burning behind her eyes. She needed to think of something else. Anything else.

  Klaus. Focus on Klaus. On getting him out. That was all that mattered now.

  She stared ahead at Averin strolling with Eliezar. No doubt he’d listened to their entire conversation. Busybody. “What’s his tie to Angharad?”

  Trystaen’s face locked up, an unwavering wall replacing the interest that had lit it just moments before.

  “Rest break,” Averin called out. “Let’s eat.”

  Averin had indeed been eavesdropping. She scowled and sank onto a fallen log, breathing heavily.

  Eliezar pulled a leather pouch from his knapsack. He held it out to her. Dried meat. She took a strip and sniffed. Very spicy. “What is this?” She grimaced. “Not human, I hope.”

  Averin and Trystaen burst into laughter. Even Eliezar cracked a smile.

  “You’re fae,” Trystaen said through his laughter. “Would you eat one of your human friends?”

  She blushed. “Of course not.” She sat up taller and cracked a half smile to cover her embarrassment. “My enemies could be another matter.”

  “We’ll bear that in mind.” Averin grinned and bumped her shoulder. “Eat it. You’re too thin to be healthy. You need to keep your strength up.”

  “Being an orphan will do that to a girl.” She smirked, as if her scrawniness was a badge of honor.

  Trystaen wagged a finger at her. “You aren’t an orphan anymore. You’re among friends now, not enemies. We care. Like family. So eat.”

  Her chest warmed with … something. No one other than Klaus or Tarik had ever called her family. Feral Fox had come close.

  They just want to use me.

  She frowned the comforting sensation away.

  But why not use them first to fatten herself up for the coming fight? She snatched a handful of the meat and tore into a strip with her teeth. It was surprisingly good.

  Averin snorted, then turned to Trystaen. “I’m going to do a sweep of the woods. Don’t move unless you have to. I’ll keep track from the sky.”

  Trystaen gave a mock salute while taking another bite of meat.

  Averin morphed into a flash of sparkling blue light so dark it was almost black.

  She gawked.

  When the light extinguished, Averin had vanished. In his place, a raven flapped inky-black wings. The same raven she’d seen at the shop with Klaus that fateful day. And the same raven that had flitted past her head when captured by Radomir.

  Her jaw hung open. “That was you terrorizing me?”

  The raven’s caw was the only indication of Averin’s laughter as he swept up through the trees and out of sight.

  She glowered, heart, cheeks, and ears heating up.

  Trystaen chuckled. “He’s a shape-shifter. So’s his brother, Rican. One of the powers bestowed upon a lucky few in Zephyr.”

  She grunted around a mouthful of meat. That must have been how Averin had heard all her conversations with Klaus. Was there any chance one of her “powers” would be flight? That would make all of this worthwhile.

  Averin wasn’t gone long before he soared back through the trees on effortless wings. One flash of blue-black magic, and he was fae again. No sign of the feathers and claws. He chuckled while she gaped at him. “You were so confident, bragging about your silver coins,” he said, recalling the same memory she blushed at. “And then betting one of them on yourself. It was quite entertaining.”

  She snapped her sagging mouth closed. “You seem to forget that I laid you flat on your ass,” she said, trying to cover her shame. “At least for a short while.” She tore into her meat, smirking. The pepper and spices made her mouth water. “Even if you did let me win.”

  Averin’s sapphire eyes gleamed. “You’ve figured that out, huh?”

  “I’m not stupid. You’re a fae who’s been training for, I don’t know, a couple of billion years.” Averin’s eyebrows shot up, and Trystaen coughed a laugh. Even Eliezar’s dark lips twitched.

  Averin blinked, feigning offense. “I’m not that old.”

  “Could have fooled me,” she said, not caring that her mouth was full of chewed-up meat. “Why did you let me win?”

  Averin shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me if you lost. As it was, you had a few”— a rakish smile—“issues. You still owe me a drink.”

  She glared at him. “I’m not a sore loser. And I pay my debts.” She grabbed the waterskin from Trystaen and held it out to Averin. “Here. Drink.”

  Averin laughed and grabbed the skin from her. He took a long swig and wiped his mouth on the back of his long, slender hand. “Don’t get me wrong; you’re a decent fighter … for a mortal. But you wouldn’t last very long against a fae.”

  She tore off another piece of meat. “Well, I’m not mortal anymore.” Pain lanced her as the words finally came out.

  Not mortal. Not just Stasha. Fae. A weapon. And what else—who else—she had no idea anymore.

  She swallowed the meat—it suddenly tasted like tar—and tucked the other strips into her fae-snack pouch.

  Time for business.

  “How long will it take for Klaus to arrive at Angharad? How long do we have?”

  All amusement faded from Averin’s eyes. “He’ll be on a ship by now, crossing the Vocril Sea. The waterway was once under King Appius of Ocea’s control. Now it belongs to Darien. They’ll dock before the day is over, if pirates or rebels don’t get them first. And then they’ll be transported to the camp.”

  She clawed the log she sat on. “By that you mean, if someone doesn’t sink it?”

  Averin hesitated, then nodded. “Only half the ships make it. The rebels manage to liberate some, but not many. Pirates get the rest.”

  “It was never like that when Appi
us controlled things,” Trystaen grumbled.

  More lawlessness, thanks to King Darien Pyreaxos’s greed for power.

  Averin sat next to her on the log. “It’s why Radomir chose to transport you by land. Even I wouldn’t risk the crossing.”

  His body brushed her side.

  Unexpected warmth rushed through her. The heat was way out of proportion to his touch. Surprised and unsure what to make of it, she shifted slightly to put some air between them. “When will we know if Klaus and everyone else from Askavol has landed?”

  Averin stood and propped his boot on the log. “When we get to Boa. She has scouts and spies in every kingdom.”

  “And if his ship didn’t make it?”

  “We’ll talk about that if it happens.”

  She scowled. “And once he docks?” She refused to consider the alternative. “How long do we have to get to him?”

  The three friends shared a look that suggested history—a painful one.

  Averin answered. “Once in Pyreack, they can spirit him wherever they want. Not all fae can spirit, especially over long distances, but they have captains and generals who can. It won’t take more than a few hours for them to reach the camp. Darien is in constant need of labor to mine his gold. It pays for his war effort, so his fae won’t dally.”

  Her gray eyes froze. She leaped up, almost knocking Averin over. “You’re telling me he’ll be in Angharad by morning?”

  Averin quickly found his feet. But when he looked at her, unyielding sadness clouded his face. The shocking blueness, the sparkling stars in his eyes, was as dull as ditchwater.

  Darkness swallow them all! What could have happened to make him look like that?

  Guessing she’d get no answer, she asked, “And Princess Boadicea can get us there?”

  “She’s King Appius’s heir,” Trystaen answered. “Before his magic was taken and his capital sacked, he transferred the spiriting key to her.”

  “How does that help us?”

  “Boa controls the border,” Averin said. “No one can spirit into Ocea without her permission. It’s the one card they have to play against Darien, the only foothold they have left in their own land.”

  So that was why Radomir and Suren couldn’t spirit into Ocea. Radomir and his band could only cross over on foot. It explained why they had been so cautious, and why they wouldn’t tell her the truth. It would have exposed weakness.

  “So she can get us where, exactly?”

  Averin answered. “Close enough to the Pyreack border to make it count. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way. That’s going to be the tricky bit.”

  So many rules. So many restrictions. So many obstacles blocking her path to Klaus.

  “We should keep going,” Averin said, closing his pack and swinging it over his shoulder.

  No one said anything as they followed him through the woods.

  She glanced south, as if she could see the ocean so many miles away. As if she could see the ship carrying the last person she had left to his death.

  The time she had to save him was quickly running out. Everything depended on what she’d say to Princess Boadicea. She set her mind to creating arguments as to why the princess had to help her.

  Pity nothing as impregnable as Angharad came to mind.

  As always, she’d just have to wing it.

  Exhaustion tugged at Stasha, begging her to stop and rest, to drink more water, to eat more food, to sleep for the next decade, but when Averin and then Trystaen offered to stop, she’d refused. Even Eliezar’s pale-blue eyes watched her with concern.

  Didn’t they understand the urgency?

  In just hours, Klaus would arrive in Angharad. With his crippled leg, not to mention his malnutrition, he would likely not survive long. Each moment she wasted on the trail was a moment stolen from him. There was no time to stop, no time to sit still and rest, and no room for error.

  The sun set, plunging the already gloomy forest into darkness. Even though they lit no torches, she saw far more clearly in the dark than she had when mortal. A few minutes later, Averin finally stopped in the middle of a small clearing. This one looked exactly like every other clearing they’d traveled through—thick with dark papery trees. Wings fluttered as circling bats greeted the misty evening sky. Dead leaves and thorny brambles littered the ground.

  “Is this the place?” she wheezed, resisting the urge to place her hands on her knees and pant.

  Averin nodded. He wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist.

  “There will be no need for that.”

  Stasha’s blood stilled. She recognized that voice.

  Five figures stepped from behind the trees. Four carried swords and daggers. The fifth had a bow and quivers strung across her back. The hunters and archer from the night before.

  The rebels.

  Averin released his sword, but the tension didn’t shift from his shoulders. Who would win in a fight between them? “We requested a meeting with Princess Boa,” he said. “We were told to meet here.”

  “Prince Averin,” a tall, solid fae answered. His thick, dark hair was tied back with a cord. “We’re here to lead you to Her Highness. And to relieve you of your weapons.”

  Averin’s lips tightened, but he nodded once. Following his lead, Trystaen and Eliezar unbuckled blades and swords from their waists and baldrics, and then extracted more from hidden pockets on their thighs and in their tunics. Averin even pulled a blade out of his boot. Stasha handed over the dagger Averin had given her.

  The burly fae hefted the weapons into a thick sack, which he hung over his shoulder. His fae companions patted them all down, searching for any concealed trickery.

  Satisfied they were unarmed, the archer stalked to the line of trees where the fae had appeared from. “Right this way.” A long, golden braid peeked from her hooded cloak.

  The remaining hunters flanked them on all sides. She stepped closer to Averin, swallowing hard as they followed in tense silence.

  Her heart burned. So much rode on this meeting. All she could hope was that Princess Boadicea would feel her passion and would respond in kind.

  They hadn’t walked more than five minutes before torchlight flickered through the labyrinth of trees. The rebel camp.

  Unlike Radomir’s, this was informal. Simple. And utterly intimidating. Perhaps even more so than Ealvera War Camp.

  Torches staked along a path hacked through the forest illuminated every tent and flag that danced in the cold wind. A fish crest flew on some of them, on others, a great tree emblazoned with a woman’s face. Some had both. Nowhere did she see the ugly firebird.

  Good.

  Still, how could the camp be so well lit, so … open? How did it escape detection? And why hadn’t they seen all these glowing lights from yards off?

  The golden-haired archer led them silently down a row of torches. Her feet made no sound on the leaf-covered ground. Fae clad in fighting leathers stopped what they were doing to stare. Suspicious eyes narrowed on them, and steel rasped as weapons were drawn. So, being a prince of Zephyr didn’t afford Averin any special treatment here? Would their lack of affection for him damage her chances of obtaining the princess’s help?

  Fists balled to hide her shaking hands, she stared straight ahead.

  They reached the largest tent in the camp. The blue flaps were pulled back to reveal a makeshift dais, and the starkly beautiful woman seated on it. Her hands, as black as coal, lay folded in her lap. Hair the color of onyx hung in severe lines to her lower back. Gold seashell combs pushed it back from the high, sharp cheekbones any artist would drool to behold. No human woman could look like that—so predatory and feline in her brutal, elegant beauty.

  Princess Boadicea. Heir of the Kingdom of Ocea. And her best chance at reaching Klaus before it was too late.

  The fact that Princess Boadicea’s throne was nothing more than an old wooden chair covered with a gray pelt did nothing to detract from her majesty.

  The
archer stopped before the dais and dropped into a low bow, the arrows in her quiver rattling. She straightened again, but her hands remained close to her weapons. “Your Highness, I present Prince Averin of the Kingdom of Zephyr.”

  Averin dipped his head. Respectful. Elegant. Diplomatic. A prince bowing to a princess. “Crown Princess Boa.” A slight smile tugged his lips. “You are looking well.”

  Princess Boadicea didn’t return the smile. Her startling mauve eyes were cold, unimpressed. Khol lines framed her lashes.

  Sweat beaded Stasha’s hands. She buried them in her cloak before the formidable princess could see her fear.

  “It’s been an age since I last had the privilege of your company,” Averin continued, as if he hadn’t noticed her disdain.

  The princess’s full lips pulled into a sneer. “Not long enough, Averin. I’m curious to see what brings you here now.” The princess’s eyes flickered to Stasha and then back to Averin.

  It took all her self-control not to back away.

  Averin met the princess head on. Sapphire blue caressing that strange mauve rimmed with flecks of gold.

  “I also wish to know who accompanies you.” The princess threw out a hand. Stasha could have sworn she saw sky-blue lines snaking along the princess’s arms. Some sort of tattoo. “I know the males. But the female I don’t recognize.”

  Averin inclined his head to her, indicating she should step forward.

  Her stomach churned as she met the princess’s intimidating stare. “Princess Boadicea,” she said, almost shocked that she could speak at all, let alone with such confidence. “My name is Stasha.” She held her breath, waiting for any sign of recognition. None was obvious, at least to her. Undaunted, she pushed on. “I have come to seek your aid.”

  The princess didn’t respond. Waiting. Watching. Unyielding.

  She coiled her fists around her ruined cloak to keep them still. “I was captured by Pyreack a few days ago. I escaped. But they—”

  “Why were you captured?” the princess interrupted. “What’s so special about you that stopped them from just killing you?”